The Truck
by Angelbyname
Summary: Ever wonder what happened to John's Truck? Angsty, with John, Sam and Dean. Set after DALDOM and reflects on the past, after Dead Man's Blood.
1. Chapter 1

Set a few months after AHBL. Just another angsty ficlet to keep you amused. Rated T for language, some swearing, it is the Winchesters after all. No wincest. This will be a multi chapter, my first. Not beta'd as I don't have one. Please forgive typos and errors.

I don't own Supernatural more's the pity.

Ever wonder what happened to John's Truck?

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"SAAM!" Dean roared a little louder as he wandered round, gazing at the piles of rusting cars and twisted metal of Bobby's yard.

_Jesus H. Christ where has he got to_, thought Dean as another rivulet of sweat snaked down his back to lodge in the grimy white vest he wore. He paused as he squinted into the distance, heat waves rising from the wrecks around him, adding to the insufferable heat radiating off the ground. It reminded him too much of the Hellfire he'd be facing soon.

He ran his tongue lightly over his lips, kicked away a scrap of rusty metal that had once been a camero's sump cover and hitched his thumbs in the pockets of his torn denims.

His attention was eventually drawn to the old wooden shed towards the back of the yard. It had a lean-to still standing along the back of it, kinda fallen down on one side, and big double barn doors across the front, paint peeling and cracked from the baking sun. Knew he surreptitiously avoided it and what was parked within. Noticing one of the doors gaping out a little, he sucked in his breath, pulled his lips over his teeth and took another glance around before slowly starting to head in that direction.

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Sam sat in the truck and remembered the last time he'd been in it with his father.

It still smelled of him, even after nearly a year of sitting in the barn, as if John's essence had somehow been absorbed into the very fabric of the truck itself. Gun oil and sweat and tequila mixed with leather.

The smell enveloped him.

Dad.

He didn't even know why he'd come in here.

He and Dean were resting again, holed up at Bobby's while waiting for more demonic omens to appear since the gate had opened.

Sam was tired of research, tired of trying to find a way out of the deal Dean had made.

He'd taken a walk and ended up here. Liked the cool stillness inside the barn. Pulled back the tarp, noting how carefully Bobby had attached it. Ran his hands over the bodywork, gleaming paintwork hidden under a layer of dirt. Built up from that last desperate dash to Lincoln, then sitting forgotten in an impound yard.

Sam grimaced a little. Knew the dirt wasn't good for the paint. John would have pitched a fit at the state of it, Sam thought. But he'd disappointed his father his whole life, and he didn't see a reason to change that now.

Bobby had brought back the truck from Lincoln in the days after John died. Didn't take him long to bust it out of the impound yard he'd traced it to, and towed it back home. Four slashed tyres indicative of why John failed to escape Meg that final time.

He'd set her up on blocks in the barn to protect the precious rims, before carefully drawing the tarpaulin over her dusty black bodywork. Pursed his lips as he patted her gently, a trusted steed put out to pasture. Magnificent in her day but now no longer required. In the long distance race she and John had run, she'd been cut down cruelly at the last hurdle.

He wondered how long she would languish there.

The boys had thanked him in the days afterward, cleared out the weapons and gear John kept stashed in her, and closed the doors of the barn.

The truck was Sam's now, Bobby heard Dean say it as they cradled beers on the front porch that night. Sam had nodded, gulped back the tears that threatened. Sucked a long draw on his beer to recover before turning to Bobby.

He saw the pain there and decided to save him from some of it.

"S'Okay, Sam. The truck can stay there for as long as it needs to. No rush to decide. She ain't goin anywheres," grateful nod answered, too raw for words yet.

She'd stayed there ever since, protected under her shroud, shielded from the elements, grounded by the blocks she rested on. Pushed away. Forgotten, it seemed.

The pain she bore them was too much, too soon.

Bobby was sure the boys hadn't even opened the doors of the barn during all their stays at the yard since then. He checked on her, periodically. Made sure she was safely blocked, carefully covered lest the rust get down to her skin. The thick layer of dust covering the tarp told Bobby she was as untouched as the day he had left her there.

Sam sat back into the black leather driver's seat of the Sierra and breathed deeply.

Didn't feel right.

He'd never actually driven it. Relegated always to the passenger seat. He leaned down and yanked the seat to push it back a bit, tried to make more room, but it made no difference.

The truck felt as alien to him as his Father had been.

He sighed deeply again as he fingered the leather steering wheel, and remembered the last time he'd sat in it.

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Colorado

"C'mon, Boys, let's head out. Salvation ain't getting' any closer," John paused as he stopped to scoop up the weapons duffel from the floor. The Colt was safely stashed inside.

"Hey, Sammy?" John caught his youngests gaze he plucked up his own duffel and swung it effortlessly onto his 6"5" frame.

"You fancy ridin' shotgun with your old man for a bit?" Asked casually, instead of ordered. Hid how much he really wanted him to. Ignored the hurt caused by the flicker of surprise in Sam's eyes.

Watched hard as they flicked quickly to Dean, seeking … something. Approval? Permission?

His boys' connection had deepened while he was absent.

He'd noticed it immediately.

Saw it in the way they worked effortlessly together, each protecting the other, no words needed. Was proud of them. They'd done on their own what he'd spent a lifetime trying to achieve by relentless pushing and bullying and training. They'd managed without him, flourished even. Two halves of a whole, each balancing out the other.

Dean made a point of turning his back on them, concentrating hard on rolling his jeans and packing his duffel.

He'd felt the change in them earlier.

Felt Sam soften and smile easily. Saw the hard lines etched by a year of worry, ease on his father's face. He didn't know what had been said while he'd been at the funeral home getting the dead man's blood, but he'd felt the difference between them, and was glad of it.

He heard the olive branch offered, something so hard for his dad, and he hoped Sam wouldn't piss on it, as he was prone to.

Seeing Dean's refusal to get involved, Sam hitched the duffel up although it didn't need it, before nodding. "Uh, sure Dad, no problem." Even managed to grin a little at his dad as he crossed to the door.

Dean chuckled to himself as the two filed out to the cars. Imagined the atmosphere of Sam and John sharing the truck for the next God knows how many hours. He wondered sadly how long the truce would last.

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Not that long as it turned out.

The first hour passed in companionable silence.

It wasn't that John didn't want to talk to his boy; he just didn't know where to start.

That grated on him some. He knew he still had ground to make up with both of them. Knew he'd let them down when they needed him most. Knew there were no words to fix the past or the hurt caused by his actions, good as his intentions had been. Knew that Dean understood, like he always did, and that Sam never would, cos he never had before.

Sam sat in quiet contemplation mostly, staring out the side window. He shifted regularly, finding the Sierra only slightly less uncomfortable than the Impala for folding his giant frame into. His butt creaked occasionally in the leather clad seat.

The truck reeked of John. Sam hadn't thought about that before.

The smell of home.

Of family.

It wasn't something you were aware of until it wasn't there. Then you were just aware that something wasn't right. Something was missing.

Wasn't missing any longer though. Was sitting right next to him, alive and well, and not talking.

Tense.

Silent.

Sam wondered where to start.

One year.

They'd been looking for him for one year, apart from the brief meeting in Chicago, and he couldn't think of anything to say.

Not one Goddamn thing. It grated on him some.

Well he'd soon fix that.

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To be continued

Please review


	2. Chapter 2

The parts set in the past are kind of a tag for Dead Man's Blood, while the present bits in further chapters will be set mid season 3, just after DALDOM. Wasn't that the best epi ever?!!!!

Anyway, enjoy!!

Recap – Sam's sitting in the Sierra, remembering the last conversations he had in it with his Dad on the way to Salvation.

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Chapter 2

Somewhere between Colorado and Iowa, the past.

"Why'd you rag on Dean about the car?" Sam broke the silence first, unable to bear it any longer, "you know he loves that car."

Sam remembered his harsh rebuke for daring to question John all Fuckin' knowin' Winchester's choice of direction while on the hunt for the vampire's trail.

Couldn't forget Dean's sour look as John railed on him for the state of the Impala. _It's only a little dirt for Christ's sake. _The Impala had covered hundreds of miles in the space of only a few weeks; she was entitled to look a little rough, thought Sam.

"Well he should show it a little more respect then, shouldn't he?" John growled back.

Hands fisted momentarily on the leather steering wheel, a visible regurgitation of annoyance, remembering the mere sight of his beloved car, dirty, stone chipped and sporting several new dents to its cherry black bodywork.

_Huh, look who's talking_, Sam thought, but managed to keep his mouth shut just in time.

"Well, Dad, we've been kinda busy lately, you know?! Hunting crazy poltergeists and ghosts, pagan gods, wendigos, rawheads, haunted trucks, killers bugs and shape shifters, you know, run of the mill stuff," Sam answered the criticism sarcastically.

"Car's a weapon as much as a gun- part of the armoury. You look after it and it'll look after you," John answered unsympathetically, eyes stared hard at him to make his point while ignoring Sam's argument, as usual. His gaze slide slowly back to the road in front.

Point made.

But that was never enough for John.

Never knew when to give up.

Didn't know how to.

"Somethin' wrong with your hands you can't lift a bucket and sponge occasionally?" John spat out the verbal backhand, counter attack his only form of defence against the guilt elicited by Sam's reminders of the dangers his boys had faced without him.

"The car sounds as shit as it looks. When was the last time Dean tuned her, changed the goddamn oil?"

Sam gave his Fuck-you Dad snort in answer.

He had no idea actually, but he wasn't going to grace his dad with more ammunition.

"Dean's been too banged up lately to worry too much about the car!" Sam couldn't stop the tiny bit of exasperation leaking into his tone.

John only raised an eyebrow as he turned, gaze burning hard at his eldest. Nodded slightly and narrowed his eyes, before turning back to the road. _Goddamnit_, Sam still knew just how to push his buttons.

"Well, I bet he didn't let that get in the way of his social life, did he?" John stated knowingly. Took Sam's silence as conformation before continuing, "still whorin' up poker, pool and women every chance he gets, huh?" Disgust tainted the venom in his voice.

"NO! No! Not…. all the time" Sam sprang a little desperately to his brother's defence. No one else ever did.

John's silent returned look screamed disbelief. Eyebrows rose questioningly. _Oh really?_

"Only when we need the money," Sam conceded quietly "things have been kinda tight lately," he admitted softly. He sank back into silence as he stared hard out the side window, unable to meet his dad's eyes. Shoulders slumped dejectedly. He was so tired of fighting. The same sentiments echoed in different arguments. Again and again, God he was so sick of it. Weary of it.

John felt the air close in again between them.

Tense.

Silent.

Unforgiving.

He studied his boy's profile. It had changed some since he'd seen him in Chicago. His clawed up face had healed without a mark to show for it. He wished all their wounds could heal so easily. The brows were wider, heavier somehow, as if drawn down in a frown too often. The jaw was as strong and square as ever, the muscle jumping when he ground his teeth in annoyance, just like his own did. Dark hair remained wild like a shaggy dog, longer now than before.

John caught himself before he smiled, remembering the reason for his anger about the car.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably, rubbed a rough hand carelessly over his pursed lips. Gaze left the road briefly, flicked to his son before settling again on the road ahead.

"It was your mother's car," he said finally.

He felt the weight of Sam's gaze on him, tilted his head slightly as if to brace against it.

"She'd always keep it looking good, ya know? Any little mark, she'd bring it into the garage to get it touched up," he said it so softly, so wistfully, Sam's heart clenched in response.

Angry words forgotten. Understood.

It was still as if the loss was just yesterday for his dad.

"That's how we met. Started dating" he paused, drawing a breath "you know the rest" he finished quietly. Resignedly. Licked his lips as he swiped at his nose, sniffing sharply to regain his composure.

Sam nodded silently as he too stared down the road ahead. Gulped deeply to work back the intense stinging behind his eyes.

"Dean'll fix her," Sam stated earnestly. _Dean can fix anything, _he thought.

"Yes, he will" John agreed softly. _Dean fixes everything, eventually, even us_, he thought.

The tension bled away like it had never been.

Relieved the equilibrium was restored, at least for the moment, Sam toed off his sneakers and folded his legs up under him to get more comfy. He settled against the door but angled his body so he could watch his father. Things were so much easier between them when his dad just explained why he did the things he did. His "need to know" marine crap wound Sam up so much he couldn't stand it. And his dad knew that. But he did it anyway.

And that's what pissed Sam off big time. He'd lie down in traffic if he knew it was for a good reason.

Not like Dean, who would just do it'cos he was ordered to. But as long as he knew why, and agreed with it, Sam would do it. He'd do anything.

He hated the fact the truth was always so hard for his father to share. Had to be drawn out of him with verbal sparring, threats, attacks and counter attacks. Hurt and venom flung back and forth. Dean used like their favourite chew toy- pulled from one side to the other before being rejected for something else. It seemed Dean was always the one ending up being rejected. But here he was bringing him and his dad closer for a change.

Sam wasn't finished in his hunt for the truth of where his father had been when they needed him, so he decided on another opening gambit.

"Did you get Dean's message when he called you from Lawrence?"

Sam inquired innocently enough, but he felt the temperature drop in the cab, as John remained poker faced, staring steadfastedly at the oncoming traffic. Noted the stiff posture. Waited for him to answer.

To be continued…

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Please review, they always feed the muse and feel nice.


	3. Chapter 3

Not mine blah, blah

Not mine blah, blah!!

Sorry for the delay, life you know?

This is not wincest, just fatherly affection.

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"Yes, I got it".

Silence.

"And?" Sam tried to keep the edge of his tone, failed just a little.

John forced himself to relax his grip on the abused steering wheel, untense his posture. Control his Goddamned temper.

"Time I got there, you'd already taken care of it," John answered nonchalantly. Like it was no big deal. Remained stony faced and didn't react to Sam's hurt and surprised response.

"Oh".

That took the wind out of his sails, John thought. Could see it as Sam sat back a little. Away from him. Folding slightly more into the corner, sighing deeply as he thought back. Tangled emotions playing across his face, as John stole surreptitious glances at his boy.

It wasn't entirely a lie, John consoled himself. He had gotten there too late to intervene. Found himself watching from afar as he often had this past year.

"We, uh… should have hung around a bit," Sam found himself apologizing and didn't know why. Hated the stilted waver in his voice.

"Missouri offered," Sam paused as he gulped deeply. "But, Dean, he…he just wanted out of there, you know?" Sam admitted softly, remembering the intensity of pain Dean exuded within 20 miles of the town of Lawrence.

"We really could have done with your help there,"

The tone wasn't accusing this time, just wistful and tinged with regret. Sad again.

"Missouri tell ya?" Sam glanced earnestly at him, dark eyes beseeching.

"Yeah,"

John said it gruffly, almost choked by the sudden ache clutching his chest. He nodded tightly, as he met his son's eyes. Always the balm for his soul, and a tiny half smile leaking out before he could stop himself.

"Sounds like you had all the help you needed, anyway," John replied quietly.

"Yeah,"

Sam's voice was choked this time, eyes brimming at the memory of his Mom standing before him. A real memory, not an imagined or made up one created by a lonely child from a bunch of yellowed and tatty photos. An actual memory to be coveted. But there was sadness there too- 'cos his Dad hadn't even gotten that much.

"Wish you could have seen her," Sam's face reflected the wonder of that moment as he gazed down the straight highway.

John looked at him again. Drank him in greedily, and let the pleasure of seeing Sam have something of Mary, ease the hurt of not seeing her one last time himself.

"Yeah," John agreed.

Sighed.

"Me too, kiddo," he managed, past the never-ending pain of her loss. Especially when he saw her reflected back in his boys every time he looked at them.

"She… smelled like peaches." Sam blurted it out suddenly, making John jump. "Dean never…" Caught himself a bit, "No one ever told - I didn't know that…" he trailed off a little lamely before continuing.

"It was familiar though…a bit – weird," he said haltingly, unsure of his Dad's response.

He fiddled with his fingers as he stared down at them, afraid to meet his Dad's eyes.

"But, she was beautiful," Sam admitted longingly.

"I could see Dean in her, too" he added softly, "I've never seen that before."

John ground his teeth to stop the overwhelming grief from welling up and sweeping him away as it had so many times before. He willed it down hard with the shear force of marine hardened steel will, the only defence he had left after everything had been burned away that night.

He readjusted his grip on the steering wheel again and narrowed his eyes to stop the tears that threatened. Forced a couple of deep breaths before he answered.

"Her favourite shampoo," he admitted, when he could.

Remembering back, so long. But the pain remained.

Watched Sam nod imperceptibly, brows shoved together as he bit his lip. Watched as he saw his son push his tears back in an unconscious mirror of his own actions that made John smile again.

"I used to use that shampoo on you boys, for the longest time," he paused as he sucked in a calming breath, blew it out slow to gain control. God talk about ripping your heart out. Sam could do it without even trying, John mused.

"'Till I couldn't get it anymore," John stated it matter of factly. "Musta stopped makin' it, I guess. Never could find one the same." He finished resolutely. Managed to draw Sam's eyes to his and met them with unshed tears.

The tears slid silently unbidden down Sam's cheeks till he brushed them away languidly with the fingers of his huge hand. A strangled sniff escaped.

John felt privileged to share even this with his youngest son. He hadn't had anything but anger and hatred and disgust from Sam for so long, he ached for something else, anything. Even this emotional floodtide, which he wasn't sure how to deal with.

John ached to soothe those tears away.

Take away the hurt there.

The pain and the longing etched in those eyes.

Sam hadn't let his Dad see that vulnerability for years. And John, embarrassed by such shows of emotion in the past, had always been happy to let Dean take care it. Like he took care of all things Sam. It was a measure of the pathetic father John Winchester had become, John realised belatedly. That he was so emotionally damaged he couldn't comfort his own sons when they needed it.

That Sam wasn't frightened to show his emotions to anyone was a measure of the man he'd become, John discovered.

He saw it in the way his boys interacted, the way Sam had been with Jess and his friends at Stanford. He'd thrived like a plant starved of sunlight released into its warming rays. Sam didn't need to order or bully to get what he wanted; he just asked or quietly insisted.

His baby son was more of a man than his old man would ever be, he thought. And he wasn't an emotional cripple like his older brother. John hated himself that he'd never managed to overcome that particular hurdle with his eldest. He loved him fiercely and absolutely, and marvelled at the skills he possessed, but he wasn't blind to his son's limitations. He saw Dean's fractured psyche, his broken self-image, every time he looked into those hauntingly beautiful green eyes. And nothing he did was able to fix it.

Nothing.

The damage was done that fateful night and all John could do was weld together the broken bits of his little boy and try to find a way to go on.

Sam had been the steel that held those welds.

Sam's whole life had defined Dean.

What Sam wanted, what he needed, Dean provided. And in that, Dean found function. Reason. Need. And he could do that. He could be there for Sam. And John let him, seeing it as the only way to preserve what was left of their damned little family. John knew he was to blame for allowing it to happen. For not taking the burden off those tiny shoulders. But he was weak and riddled with pain, so he hadn't. And now Dean paid the price for John's failings.

Knowing that Sam's need was pressing, John clamped down on his musings and returned to the here and now.

Hesitatingly, unsure how it would be received, he reached out and laid his rough hand on Sam's ankle. It was the only part of Sam he could reach while driving.

He rested it there. And waited.

Sam stilled at his touch. Didn't flinch.

John kept his eyes on the road.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you, when you needed me,"

Sam froze. He wasn't sure if they were talking about Lawrence or his whole life in general.

His father had never apologised for anything. It was one of the biggest problems Sam had with his Dad. He could never admit he was wrong. And yet.

Sam decided to take the gesture for what it was. Affectionate. Familiar. Caring.

All the things his Dad found so hard to express. At least he was trying. It was more than he usually did.

Sam took the olive branch instead of pissing on it, as he would have in the past.

"I'm sorry too, Dad." Sam allowed, wiping away the last remains of his tears, drawing comfort from his Dad's presence and gentle contact, glad he wasn't forcing a hallmark moment between them.

John nodded slightly as he clasped the bony ankle, patted it gently. Remembering how he used to do that when the boys were real little. They would stir restlessly and the light touch had calmed them.

"Yeah, it's been a hard road, lets hope we're coming to the end if it," John concluded and withdrew his hand to replace it on the steering wheel again.

To be continued.


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